


Bright Lights

by isychiae



Series: DC Angst Drabbles [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Damian Replacing Tim, Depressed Tim, Drug Abuse, Gen, Heavy Angst, I can only write angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecure Tim, Insecurity, Light Metaphors, ONLY ANGSTTTT, Opioid mention, This Is Sad, crossposted on tumblr, drug mention, replacement, trigger warning, v sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 14:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isychiae/pseuds/isychiae
Summary: This house is a museum and Tim is some broken, wretched relic left rotting behind plastic, plucked from his tomb and locked up far away.OR:Tim is ousted from his position as Robin, and is swallowed up in his perceived inadequacy. Featured lots of references to light.





	Bright Lights

**Author's Note:**

> So i wrote this short thing after seeing a prompt somewhere online. Its very angsty, and trigger warning for implied drug abuse.
> 
> This is the first part in a series of sad lil snippets about the DC lads because i end up writing a lot of this short little drabbles.

Tim swallows the lump in his throat, staring glassily at a vein of grey running through the tile beneath his left hand. His radio lies under the shade of the toilet bowl, dented, dim static filtering through its speaker. Muffled voices echo beneath its steady buzz, and Tim briefly entertains the thought of drowning it in the toilet.

He’s being petty.

The bathroom lights glint against every polished surface, a testament to his father’s wealth. The graze on his shoulder twinges, crusted and gritty. Something that tastes an awful lot like guilt promises that he is the black spot ruining his father’s reputation. Tim blinks, eyes dry. Everything is scattered, strung-out. Hazy.

There are pills strewn across the floor. They look like candy, shells sparkling.

A shout pushes through the static of the radio. Tim throws it a withering look, blinking back headrush. The interference clears a little, a gruff voice barking commands that fade in and out.

“Robin, to the left-“

“Six-“

“-it alone!”

The radio shuts down after it lands on the lawn outside.

Bruce would kill him if he found out Tim did that. That there’s a piece of highly-specific, highly-_suspicious _tech just lying around to be happened upon by the unsuspecting gardener.

Hopefully the opioids will get there first.

Tim wonders idly whether the housekeeper would find him here, propped up against the bath. Granted, he’s pretty sure his father doesn’t employ one anymore. This house is more a glorified showroom than a home, all sparkling glass and empty cabinets and dusty bedrooms. There’s dust floating in the air, midges catching in the light as they spiral upwards.

This house is a museum and Tim is some broken, wretched relic left rotting behind plastic, plucked from his tomb and locked up far away. The dust itches at the back his throat and he coughs, the sound rattling through his lungs.

Flecks of crimson spatter across the tiles, whilst another tremor ripples through his chest.

The pills strewn across the floor look like gemstones, glittering in the light.

The marble is cold beneath his hands, so cold.

Inviting.

~

He wakes up, hours later, freezing and all alone.


End file.
